


Safe Haven

by Beleriandings



Series: Nargothrond and Beyond [6]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: GIl-galad son of Orodreth, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1840618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Celebrimbor tells a young Ereinion of the fall of Nargothrond and his escape. It is the start of a friendship that will see the prince become a king, and Celebrimbor's own family become the enemies of their people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe Haven

**Author's Note:**

> Tolkien was never 100% specific on the subject of what Celebrimbor was doing between the fall of Nargothrond and the second age. This story is set in a universe where Celebrimbor is at the Havens with Ereinion and his mother, under Círdan's leadership during this time. (As usual in my stories, I am going with the version where Gil-galad is the son of Orodreth, and therefore the brother of Finduilas.)

F.A. 496 

The servant bows apprehensively. “Prince Ereinion and his lady mother are ready to see you now.”

Círdan pats Celebrimbor on the arm, gives him a long glance that says something between  _good luck_  and  _be careful. They have suffered._

Celebrimbor does not need to be told.

The doors to Círdan’s audience chamber open before him, and Celebrimbor finds his feet carrying him through them, even as Círdan himself disappears from his sight. The doors close, and they are three, all alone.

The prince stands at the base of the low dias. The ceremonial chair on which Círdan would sit (not a throne, for Círdan is a Lord, not a King) is empty, but to the side of the room there is another chair, in which sits a woman. She holds herself perfectly straight, her hands folded in her lap. She looks not at Celebrimbor, but regards her son with an unreadable expression on her face, still as though she were carved in polished cherry wood. Her eyes are still black pools in the weak sunlight filtering through the high window. Celebrimbor has seen her before, briefly. At the time she was being sent, for her own safety, away from Nargothrond, to which he himself had recently fled to for his life. He frowned. This Ereinion was not the one who had gone with her, that small boy with huge eyes and wild tufts of dark hair, standing tall as his father kissed his cheeks and his sister pulled him, weeping, into a last embrace. He had plainly been trying his hardest not to cry himself then, for brave little princes do not cry.

Ereinion’s eyes are hard as chips of gemstone, and they travel over Celebrimbor, taking in every detail. _An accusation._  A question; why are you alive when they are dead? The prince’s hair and skin are dark as his mother’s, but his eyes are Orodreth’s pale blue ones, a little incongruous in his face.

“Curufinwion” says Ereinion. His accent is that of the Falas, although Celebrimbor can discern a twist of Nargothrond in it still. (He has a sudden flash of memory of his uncle Celegorm impersonating an exaggerated Nargothrond accent to make Celebrimbor and his father laugh soon after their arrival there. He pushes the memory away.)

Celebrimbor bows at the prince’s address. In any other circumstance, he would have asked not to be called by his father’s name, but now, he judges, is not the time. “Prince Ereinion.” He bows. “My Lady Melinduilas.” She inclines her head at him. The prince does not move.

“You know why you are here?” asks Ereinion suddenly.

 _I am here because I escaped the ruin of Nargothrond. I am here to bring you news of the deaths of your father and sister._  “I do.”

“My father was a great king” says Ereinion, more to himself than to Celebrimbor. “He knew King Felagund’s old defences were sound. Nargothrond was safe. I do not understand why…” he tails off into silence, and Celebrimbor has the distinct impression that the young prince has had this conversation with himself many times.

“With respect, prince” begins Celebrimbor. “The mortal - ”

“Ah yes” the prince rounds on him. “This would be the same mortal my sister was in love with, the one who swore to save her? The one who did not save her?”

Celebrimbor opens his mouth, but Ereinion is too quick, his eyes blazing, his fists clenched. “No, don’t answer. I know you will not try to defend him, and I know that you could do little to help. Círdan tells me you were wounded when you escaped too, Curufinwion.” Ereinion’s eyes travel over Celebrimbor again, their gaze a little softer than before. Celebrimbor realises suddenly how young the prince is. The mourning black velvet doublet, the high leather boots and the simple silver circlet that holds back his mane of thick black hair - the twin to his mother’s - make him look older than he is, but he is still that little prince, standing tall.  _Brave little princes do not cry._

“Minor burns, a sword cut to the leg” affirms Celebrimbor. “Not deep. But Prince Ereinion, I would have you know that I was separated from your father in the fray, otherwise I would surely have been there at his side. He let me stay after… after King Felagund was killed, and my father and uncle were dishonoured. That if I had been there, I would have gladly given my life defending…” he tails off, realising how inadequate his words sounded, for no amount of honourable intentions will bring Orodreth back, or Finduilas.

“Do you know…” Ereinion hesitates. His jaw is lifted, and his posture is as straight as his mother’s, but his jaw clamps together in between words, as if to bite back a scream of frustration and grief. “Can you tell me…” he looks lost for words, staring at his hands, clasping and unclasping them. He darts a glance at his mother, desperate.  “They told me Finduilas was…” his voice chokes in his throat. “They tell me she was speared to a tree. Is that the truth?”  _A plea._

Celebrimbor sighs. “We heard things, when we were fleeing across the lands, from the Edain of the woods” Ereinion stiffens at the mention of the Edain, his face freezing. “They said that the orcs took her, and yes, she was - ” he gestures weakly, his eyes going anywhere but at the Lady Melinduilas “ – the mortal, her Mormegil, buried her in a green mound, they say.”

Ereinion’s teeth grind together, his hands balled into fists again. His mother stands, crosses the room to encircle him in her arms, her face hidden in his hair and invisible to Celebrimbor. She whispers in his ear for a long while, and he lets himself be held, his shoulders slumping, trembling a little.

“Finduilas should have come with us, at least” the prince is saying, his eyes still closed. “Why did Ada keep her there, she could have been here with me and you and Círdan… they could have both been here…”

“Hush, my sweet star.” She strokes his hair, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I know. I know.” She clings to her son as if he were the last thing she had in the world.

Ereinion’s eyes are squeezed closed, his face twisted. Celebrimbor feels intensely uncomfortable, knowing he should not be witnessing this. It feels faintly indecent, voyeuristic, to see their grief. Finally mother and son break apart, and Melinduilas turns to him, holding her son’s hand.

“Thank you, Celebrimbor. I do not think we need to hear any more, for now.” Her voice is brittle, like crystal shot through with hairline cracks that still holds together, for a time.

“My… my greatest sympathy and condolences for your loss.” He bows, knowing it is not enough, it will never be enough.

He feels the prince’s eyes boring a hole through his back as the page outside the door conducts him from the room.

—————

F.A. 507 

“I’d keep a low profile if I were you” Círdan is telling him, but Celebrimbor is barely listening, fiddling distractedly with his sleeve. The silver embroidery is fraying, but Celebrimbor sits distracted on the edge of the armchair beside Círdan’s desk, still tugging at the threads.

Celebrimbor’s eyes are drawn to the letter in Círdan’s hand, his writing desk strewn with paper, urgent missives, plans for the housing of new refugees. “And I wouldn’t wear that if I were you” adds Círdan, nodding at the jewelled dagger at Celebrimbor’s belt. Celebrimbor glances down, quickly pulling down the corner of his heavy woollen tunic to cover it.

“It was only - ”

“Ceremonial, yes, I know. A gift, certainly, and you are within your right to carry it here. But given the current situation…” Círdan spreads his hands over the mass of paper spread over his desk, and glances out of the window at the bustle in the stone courtyard “…I do not think that the grandson of Fëanor walking around with steel at his belt is a good idea. It’s for your own safety as much as anyone else’s.”

“I’m sorry” he mutters. “I forgot.” He feels like a child again.

Círdan gives him a strained smile. “It’s quite alright, Celebrimbor. You know and I know that you have renounced your house, that you never took the Oath. But few of the refugees of Doriath will know that, and I do not think they will be inclined to stop and ask.”

Celebrimbor nods, taking the dagger in its hilt from his belt and putting it in an inside pocket.

“And you?” asks Círdan, looking at him intently. Círdan’s pale eyes have always unnerved Celebrimbor a little, however much he may grow to love and respect his old friend. They were piercing, even though the effect is softened a little by the crinkles that appear in his lined, leathery skin with his smiles, skin tanned dark brown by the bright sunlight glancing off the sea. “You lost a father, Celebrimbor.” There is concern in Círdan’s face. “How do you feel about that?”

“I renounced my family” says Celebrimbor automatically, the words familiar in his mouth, a well-worn litany.

Círdan merely raises an eyebrow. “That’s not the answer to the question I asked.”

Celebrimbor looks at the wall for a while, thinking. Círdan does not press him.

“I do not know” says Celebrimbor at last. “It is hard for me to imagine…” he breaks off, for it is not hard for him to imagine the darkness, the caves ringing with the sound of steel on steel, blood seeping between the flagstones in the guttering torchlight. His father’s face as he lies dying, mouth pressed into a determined line, blood spilling between his fingers.

No, all that and more is frighteningly easy for Celebrimbor to imagine. “I do not know” says Celebrimbor again, truthfully. _I loved him, once. I loved all of them. Do I still?_ He tries to imagine fighting with them, killing in the dark, killing to keep the everlasting darkness at bay, but his mind is blank now.  _I will likely never see him again._  The knowledge washes over him like a great wave breaking, a cold shock, for it had not quite seemed real until this moment.  _And if I see silver-bright burning Maedhros, or graceful, steel-eyed Maglor, or Amrod, driven to the last vestiges of caring, if I see them again, I will likely be at the wrong end of their blades._

Círdan is still regarding him with those pale, perceptive eyes. “I want you to know that you are under my protection here. And so are the refugees who fled the ruin of Doriath.”

Celebrimbor nods mechanically, to show he understands the implication. But something tugs at his mind still. “Círdan… do you know if…”

“If they got the Silmaril?”

Celebrimbor can feel the colour rising in his face. “Yes. That.”

“They did not” says Círdan heavily, gesturing to the pile of paper. “I have had word from the south. Dior’s daughter Elwing got away, and she keeps it. She is safe at the mouths of Sirion for now, but…” he spreads his hands again. “Now I fear I am hard pressed to predict what Maedhros, Maglor and Amrod will resort to.”

Celebrimbor looks at him in horror. “You think… you think it will happen again?”

Círdan sighs. “I think we can be sure of nothing. All we can do is wait.” He looks back out of the window, then at Celebrimbor. “The enemy is silent, suspiciously so.”

“You think he is letting us destroy each other?” He swallows.  _Letting the sons of Fëanor destroy us._  The words hang heavy, unsaid, between them.

“I do not know, Celebrimbor” says Círdan again. “But I do know what I _can_  do. I will do what I know, and what I know is how to build ships. I am to be  given a task, very soon…”

Celebrimbor raises an eyebrow.

Círdan smiles faintly. “Come now, I’ve already told you too much. The less you know the better. You will find out soon enough anyway, I daresay. Right now, we have here a small circle of light amidst the dark. Be glad you are inside it rather than outside for now. I fear it cannot last.”

—————-

F.A. 538

Gil-galad leans against the column in the alcove, hands balled into fists, his eyes aflame. His breathing is shallow, ragged, and Celebrimbor wonders whether the young king is biting back tears. He finds it harder to tell now. Celebrimbor is reminded of the first time he met him properly, after the fall of Nargothrond and his own flight here. Gil-galad has changed much; he is a true king now, where before he was just a prince, still half a boy. He has a new name, Ereinion has become Gil-galad, a bright guiding star for his people.

Gil-galad has never been an easy person to get along with, never as magnanimous as Finrod, as accommodating as Orodreth, or as sweet as Finduilas. Neverthless, the two of them are fast friends now, a rather new experience for Celebrimbor. Or at least in normal circumstances they are. These circumstances are anything but normal. Celebrimbor tries to turn around, to pretend he has not seen Gil-galad, but it is too late.

“Celebrimbor.”

Gil-galad is looking right at him, something in his eyes that Celebrimbor cannot identify.  _Rage and pain. Fear. Desire for revenge. Something else too._

“My King.”

“Oh, don’t give me that, Celebrimbor” snaps the king.

“I’m sorry.”

"Don’t be." Gil-galad stares at him for a long time. “What were they like?” he asks finally.

“What were who like?” He thinks he knows.

“The sons of Fëanor.”

“I…”

“Think of it as bringing intelligence to your king if you feel uncomfortable talking about personal matters” says Gil-galad, him mouth curving into a bitter smile. “I simply do not understand. What we’re facing. Your life. Tell me, Celebrimbor.”

He is suddenly extremely aware of the news that has come from just a little further down the coast, the previous day.  _The surprise attack, Elwing, by all accounts, driven off a cliff, her young sons taken by Maedhros and Maglor. Chaos, people changing sides in droves, the sea-foam red with blood…_  he finds it difficult to fit together with the images he has of his uncles, and yet, once again, horribly easy.

“They were…” now that the time has come he has little idea of what to say.

“I’m sorry” says Gil-galad, sliding his back down the marble wall so that he is sitting in the corner, looking almost like a child again. Leaning his elbows on his knees, he covers his face with his hands. “I should have been there, should have fought, should have  _helped_  while my people where slain…”

Celebrimbor sits down with his legs crossed, beside him. “You had no way of knowing” he says uncomfortably. “None of us did.” It is untrue, of course; for all had known that the attack would come, although none had expected it yet…

“Thank you for saying that.” Gil-galad’s voice is hollow.

They are silent for a long while.

“They are unflinching” says Celebrimbor after a while. “They will not stop.”

Gil-galad looks up. “What?”

“You asked what they are like.”

“I…”

“They will break the world apart, for the Oath drives them. Now that Maedhros and Maglor have lost their brothers…” Celebrimbor realises how easily he is able to say such things now. Maybe because he has ample practice in disconnecting the many facets of his father and uncles from one another, from taking apart the father who had held him in his arms, taught his to talk and write, then taught him forge work and fighting. He has disconnected the language scholar, the diplomats and fosterers of mutually beneficial trade relations, the hunters, the singer and chronicler, the Lords of the east, the dispossessed. The captive returned as if from the dead. The traitors of Nargothrond, the infamous kinslayers, the Oath takers, the ones who are doomed to the darkness. All are separate in his mind. He fidgets with his cuffs, simple, no embroidery. He wears grey.

“Now that they are only two, I do not know what they will do.” He had always seen the least of Maedhros and Maglor, but both had been good to him.  _Once._  “Maedhros is steel, beaten and folded and reforged. Maglor, I don’t know. If his heart is sick, if he has lost the will to search for redemption, then he will stop at nothing. They will fight for each other and for their father’s jewels until they lie dying on the shore, and probably even then too.”

“And the children?”

“Children?”

“They have two children with them, Elwing’s twin boys.”

Celebrimbor stared at him. “And they have not tried to ransom them?”

Gil-galad shrugs. “We do not have the Silmaril, so there hardly seems any point.”

“Then why are they keeping them?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Probably better.”

They are silent for a while longer.

“Gil?”

“Hmm?”

“You know… you know I fight for you, do you not? That you can rely on my loyalty?”

“Did you think I thought you would join them?”

Celebrimbor shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t know what I thought.”

Gil-galad smiles that bitter smile once more. “None of us know much at the moment. But I know that you are here out of choice. You renounced them. I trust you.”

“Gil?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.” 


End file.
